Beautiful
by Ardent Aficionado
Summary: "It felt like he didn't care. Maybe he didn't." Onesided Liet/Poland. Deals with possibly sensitive topics. Oneshot.


**Beautiful

* * *

**

_I've grown tired of love  
You are the trouble with me_  
_I watch you walk right by_  
_I smile, you do not notice me_  
_Treat me recklessly_  
_All you do is toss me pennies out_  
_But the silence in me is screaming_  
_Won't you come and get me?_

* * *

The clock was ticking quietly in the back of his head, mocking him as he bent over the sink. His fingers were clutched painfully on the counter. At least, it would have been painful, had there not been a burning in the back of his throat so rancid that the disgust drowned out the discomfort of his hands.

It was called Ipecac, syrup that, before very recently, he wouldn't have even considered. If you were to mention its side effects to him, he would probably have wrinkled his nose at you and shook his head, said something along the lines of, "That's totally nasty." And he would be right – what he was doing _was_ nasty. He hated it.

But there was one thing he hated more, and that was how ugly he was.

Just as the thought hits his heart the syrup hits his gag reflex and he heaves, emptying his guts into the sink. It's not much – his stomach is nearly empty, since he hasn't eaten anything that day. He'd shamefully forked down a bowl of rice after a stare down with Russia – even he did not expect this of him, he assumed, but he'd wondered why he wasn't eating; the rice, as reluctant as he had been to consume it, had been worth it – Russia hadn't looked at him again the rest of the meal or since then, suspicions forgotten in favor of more important things. That was more than okay with him – he didn't need other people in his business.

He finds that he's dry-heaving now – the little he does get up is mostly water, blood, and the syrup itself. He doesn't register this at first – he simply leans over the sink and pukes his guts out, mind wandering to anywhere but there. Unfortunately, it wanders straight to the reason he's there, just like every time he does this.

_Lithuania._

That boy who had been his best friend, that was now so much more than that, at least in his eyes. The boy who didn't even look at him when he asked "how do I look?" and ogled Belarus like she was a goddess. The boy who never once told him he was beautiful, not even platonically – the one thing that he had craved the most, as strange as it seemed. He had flat out asked if Lithuania thought he was pretty once – he'd gotten the reply of "I'm not gay, Feliks." He'd known that. He hadn't even been in denial – he knew that his best friend was straight, and he'd known he didn't have even a hint of a chance with him. And that hadn't been the question. He'd asked if he was beautiful. But Lithuania had given him the answer to another question entirely, shaken his head, rolled his eyes, and made a strange, almost _disgusted_ expression. Sure, he smiled afterwards and returned to being his usual cheerful, happy self, but that moment lingered in Poland's mind relentlessly.

It wasn't that Poland hadn't thought himself ugly before that. He had. It just hurt to have that confirmed by the one person that was suppose to always think he was beautiful – wasn't that what best friends were for? Finding the perfection through all the layers of disgusting ugly? Wasn't that what Lithuania was suppose to do – what Poland tried his best to do for him every day? But then, maybe that was just it. Maybe there was no perfect under the ugly – maybe Lithuania _was_ his best friend, and because of that, he could see Poland's repulsiveness better than anyone else.

The last of the bile is out of his system, and the disgust with himself returns. The taste of vomit in his mouth returns, disgusting and acidic, and it's almost enough to make him want to throw up again if only out of pure disgust. Looking down at his body, dismay hits him – he's so disgusting. He has wide hips, like a girl, but his chest is sturdy and his thighs stocky, like a man's. His stomach is flabby, and when he pinches it he's disgusted by the loose skin (the _fat_) he finds there, not the muscle that a decent guy should have. His arms are a girl's too, skinny and bony, so disproportionate to his thunder thighs and disgusting stomach. His face is too round, too – when he looks in the mirror, he can see the fat there too, in the way his face does not slope the way it should, instead a round shape, like a baby. Disgusting – he's a man, isn't he?

He'd once been proud of his body, despite his effeminate features, dressed it in all the latest fashions; he'd embraced his femininity and even cross dressed as a hobby. Now, he realized how disgusting it was – he wasn't a _girl._ He had never _wanted_ to be a girl. And yet people treat him as if he is. Some of them don't even mean badly by it – he remembers a female country once (at this point in his disgust and misery, he cannot remember who) inquiring if maybe he would be their sister. There was no mistake – she had meant sister. Poland can't remember what he said then – it was a long time ago, a time when he was happy, a time that feels so terribly out of reach. At the time, he hadn't even minded – in fact, he'd laughed and said something along the lines of, "Totally, but how about, like, sassy gay friend instead? I'm, like, totes a dude, even if I do look fabulous in this skirt, to the max." Now, he's sure he would have cried, because as unashamed as Poland had once been of himself, of who he was and what he was, he felt only shame now – who was he to be proud of himself when he was so unbearably disgusting, after all?

He knew when it started changing, when he started being so ugly. WWII, for Poland, had been a horrible time. That's when he'd lost his happiness. Every nation lost it, though, when horrible things happened to them – every country had hardships. The difference in Poland's being that his simply never came back – he couldn't seem to reach it himself, no matter how many therapeutic shopping expeditions he went on, and there was never anyone there to help him along. As soon as Poland and his people emaciated and diminished by the holocaust and weakened by the financial and psychological effects of the war that, right from the beginning, he'd never really wanted to be a part of.

He could remember, standing there, staring into the disgusting matter that had once been settled inside his stomach, the day he'd come to Lithuania for help. He hadn't received any – Lithuania was too busy ranting about how Belarus wouldn't pay him any attention thanks to "that bastard Russia" to pay any mind to the pained, desperate expression on his best friend's pale face. And that was fine with Poland, at least at first – he had always been happy to listen to Lithuania's woes and problems, even if they sometimes sent stabs of jealousy to his green heart. Even with the envy cursing him, he cared about Lithuania and, honestly, it made Poland feel special to know that the brunette boy trusted him with his secrets and his sob-stories, even if they were of the repetitive, depressing sort.

By the end of Lithuania's rant their conversation had usually run dry, on days like this when they were "opening up" to each other. By the end of that, Poland was usually so green with jealousy and blue from holding back a million pleas for him to just _give up on Belarus_ because she would _never love him, not like he loved him._ By the end Poland forgot that he was going to tell him anything at all, let it pass over his mind until Lithuania was already walking away or moving on to the next thing (a movie, writing to Belarus, going away to do something else), Sometimes, even though Poland did not think this was the case, he thought that Lithuania might even be avoiding the topic of the Holocaust, and the way that Poland felt regarding it. Later on, when he sunk into a different kind of depression and started doing this, it felt even more strongly that Lithuania was dodging the hints he threw at him, felt as if he wasn't bothering to pay attention to Poland's silent pleas. It felt like he didn't care. Maybe he didn't.

At this point, it didn't matter. No matter how much or how little Lithuania cared about him, his was forever the face etched into Poland's vision even as he shoved the lever up and water sprayed from the faucet and washed the evidence of Poland's weakness down the drain. His is the crooked, awkward little smile that forever mocks him from the back of his mind, right there with the tick-tock of the clock, the sound of his life trickling away, his time running out. He doesn't know if nations can be killed like normal people can, and he knows they don't age like normal people, and yet he can feel time trickling through him, as if he might suddenly wither away and cease to exist.

He almost wishes. At least then, he won't have to deal with life every day. At least then, nobody else would have to deal with his rancid presence any longer.

Turning away from the sink and wiping the mix of saliva, acid and blood from his lips, Poland wonders how skinny he would have to get before Lithuania noticed.

He wonders how long he'd have to go without eating before he'd finally just go and die.

* * *

**Song in the beginning is by Dave Matthews Band. This made me feel horrible to write, but I was in a bad mood. **

**(If it makes anyone feel better, Poland pukes rainbows.)**


End file.
